Forgotten bride 04 the b.., p.11
Forgotten Bride 04-The Bride's Salvation, page 11
part #4 of Forgotten Bride Series
“Fuck,” he uttered.
“What is it?” I asked.
“I wanted to move you both immediately, but I’ve checked with the office, and apparently, there’s nowhere suitable.”
“Fantastic,” I said, my words steeped in sarcasm.
“Not to worry. I’ve just gotten off the phone with Agent Aldrich, and he’s agreed to step up security for the time being.”
“What if that vagrant lets Alex know where we are?”
“I think that’s highly unlikely. For a start, he was looking for him, correct?” he said after turning to Aurora, and she nodded in response with a wry shrug. “I don’t think you’re in any immediate danger until another safe house becomes available, but I’ll see to it personally that no one else even makes it up the driveway.”
I let the weight of my head drop backwards and allowed it to rest on the back of the sofa for a moment before letting out a dramatic sigh as I peered at the ceiling. My mind was already filled to capacity with everything that was going on, and now, I had this Reverend character to worry about, too. I could feel the start of a migraine coming on, and I rubbed my temples lightly to try and stave it off. My head felt like a rubbish tip, and I was slam-bang in the middle of all of the shit, desperately trying to move the trash to create a space, but every time there was a gap, some fucker came over and threw even more trash on top of me.
“Why can’t they all just leave us alone?” I said to the heavens.
“Amen to that. Just don’t lose sight of why you’re here,” Peterson advised.
“I think it’s too late for that.”
“You’re here to support your husband, get these trumped-up charges quashed, and then go back to living your life.”
“Hmm,” I let out before leaning forward in my seat and gently placing my hand on Aurora’s shoulder. “I’m going to get changed—I suddenly feel very grimy.”
“I’ll be waiting outside, Mrs Anderson. I’ll leave you both to it,” Peterson said, standing up and following me out of the room.
Peterson overtook me in the hallway and peered through the glass pane of the door for a second before turning back around to me and wordlessly beckoning me over with his hand.
“Hey, Aurora had a knife back there. Is she okay?” he asked in a whisper.
“I know,” I said with a slight shrug. “I think so.”
“That isn’t a usual reaction. In my experience, a young girl like her would usually just run.”
I leaned backwards and peered around the doorway, seeing that Aurora was already back on her phone and tapping away.
“She’s fine,” I said under my breath before turning back to the agent. “She’s stronger than both of us put together.”
“You’ve both been through so much, and I can’t help but feel guilty for allowing that to happen.”
“It wasn’t your fault,” I said, tentatively putting my hand on Peterson’s arm. “Go on then, go outside and eat doughnuts in your car or whatever you cops do.”
“That’s a bit of a stereotype, isn’t it?” he smiled.
“If the shoe fits…” I mumbled as I began trudging up the stairs, hearing the front door click shut behind me.
Once I reached the landing, I felt rather hot and clammy after the eventful morning I had endured, so after quickly emptying my bladder in the bathroom for the umpteenth time that day, I made my way to my bedroom door to get changed into something more comfortable. I pushed the door open, and although the room was still quite foreign to me, I could already sense that something was wrong before I even walked in there. I poked my head through the doorway, and to my horror, I came face to face with the collage that Alex’s supposed father had left for me in my absence.
Oh boy, had he been a busy bee.
Lying on the bed was a once folded-up piece of cardboard, torn at the edges from some packaging. It was plastered with printed-off photographs, newspaper clippings, and notes that had been haphazardly stuck to its surface. I approached it with some unease, aimlessly pulling at one of the corners of the images with my finger as I tried to take it all in. My eyes started to make sense of it once I had got closer, and I realised that it had been split into four. The top left quadrant was filled with pictures of a young child, presumably Alex if the hand-written captions were to be believed. They spanned from when he was born up until the point when he was six or seven years old and then stopped.
“Huh, he looked so innocent back then,” I mumbled to myself.
The top right segment was dominated by a front-page article which I instantly recognised entitled ‘The Bride from the Bunker,’ which outlined what had happened to me when I was kidnapped, and surrounding it were numerous clippings from other publications that had been following my every move since my release. I smirked slightly at one of the articles that referred to me as an overnight success, letting out a single laugh before the smile slipped from my face, and I continued to peruse the rest of the board.
I didn’t recognise a single face from the bottom left corner. It was filled with seemingly harmless long-lens photographs of men holding children’s hands, interspersed with torn-out strips from road maps. As I idly pulled the corners up of the images, I noticed that others had been pasted on underneath. There must have been at least half a dozen pictures of hatches, not dissimilar from the one I burst through ten years prior, and I followed them to the centre of the split where the letter M had been angrily scrawled in permanent red ink.
With a flummoxed head shake, I continued to the last section, which, initially, I couldn’t make head nor tail of, so I knelt down at the foot of the bed and pulled the collage closer towards me so I could inspect it better. I picked one of the many pictures stuck on there at random and looked deeply into the young man’s eyes. After a moment, my blood ran cold when I realised that I was glaring at a picture of Nathaniel. He appeared to be a teenager, dressed in a rented tuxedo with an extravagant cravat to match, throwing his arms around Alex, who was creepily grimacing into the camera lens. I noticed a line, haphazardly drawn in a marker pen that was clearly running out of ink, which I traced to another photo, not able to believe the face staring back at me.
“Ernest?” I mumbled under my breath.
I stood up again, and now that I was aware of the lines drawn all over the collage, I suddenly realised what I was looking at.
It was a family tree. A really fucked-up one, if you ask me.
The many pictures of Alex all pointed to a photograph of Nathaniel’s father, Ernest, who was sitting at the centre of the web, bar one scribbled-out offshoot that led to a picture of the man who had broken into the safe house we were in. From Ernest’s image, the lines directed my eyes to many pictures of my husband and then to Nathaniel’s mother, Gloria. I leant down, noticing that some words had been scratched into Ernest’s forehead, and my legs nearly gave way when I read them out loud.
“Alex’s real father,” I uttered.
13
THE SUPPLIES
ALEX – 2025
Beep. Beep. Beep. I mindlessly watched as the clerk scanned all the items I was trying to purchase at a random store out in the sticks. The selection I had made was seemingly innocuous, but when put together, they told a story. Bundles of towels, nitrile gloves, and a first-aid kit shot towards me, and I struggled to keep up with the pace as they were being scanned. The man pulled a frown when packs of nappies and wet wipes flew through the scanner, and his face only tightened further when it was followed by rolls of duct tape.
“There was an offer on,” I mused, breaking his scowl.
Duct tape has a thousand-and-one uses if the late-night infomercials were to be believed, and I had only discovered a fraction of those. In my experience, there was no better way of binding someone’s wrists together, even if they were resisting. I opted for the ultra-high strength rolls, largely because you can never be too careful, but also because they were discounted in the large quantity I had purchased.
What can I say? I’m a savvy shopper.
The till beeped again as the clueless man in front of me scanned the bumper-pack of bottled water, which I allowed to slide down the little ramp before placing it into my cart. I had a duty to keep Olivia hydrated because, after all, she was growing my child. Doctors always go on about how important drinking water is, and I bet it’s even more important when being pregnant. As soon as the slope was clear, then came the deluge of canned goods I had picked up at random, so I tossed them into the cart one by one until the tinned ravioli slammed against the barrier, and I mindlessly picked it up to read the ingredients.
“Hmm,” I let out.
“Is there something wrong?” the clerk asked.
“The sodium levels in this are through the roof. I better put this back,” I mused as I handed it back, and he pulled a face as he tapped the till screen to remove it from the bill.
After he had finished taking it off, the cleaning supplies came. I allowed the gallons of bleach, surface sprays, soaps and sponges to rack up in front of me before scooping them up in my arms and dropping them into my trolley in one fell swoop. The staff member awkwardly arched his back in his seat as he pulled a broom from the belt, followed by a mop and bucket, so I took them from his grasp and wedged them against the rest of the items in my cart as I peered at the conveyor for what was next.
On second thoughts, instead of neatly segmenting the items according to their use when I unloaded them on the belt, I probably should have spread out the more sinister-looking items. A sheathed machete glided down the ramp, followed by a claw hammer, various knives, a hatchet that I liked the look of, and then finally, some kind of stun gun that I couldn’t believe was shelved a few bays away from the baby formula.
“God bless America,” I thought to myself as a stifled smirk split my face, but when the rhythmic beeping stopped, I looked up at the clerk again, finding that he now had a puzzled expression on his face as the obvious intent behind my macabre shopping list seemed to dawn on him finally. I quickly gathered up the items of weaponry I had purchased and threw them on top of the other supplies as he uncomfortably began to ring up the total.
“That’s three-hundred and eighty-five dollars, thirty-six cents, please. Cash or credit?” he announced.
Christ, kids are expensive.
“Cash,” I let out as I fumbled around for my wallet.
“It looks like you have one hell of a project on your hands! Do you mind me asking what you’re doing?”
“Renovations,” I grumbled as I counted out the bills.
“Are you a landlord or something?”
“Yeah—I suppose I am.”
“It looks like the previous tenant left one hell of a mess!”
“Like you wouldn’t believe,” I smiled as I handed him the money.
“Here you go, sir,” he said and handed over my change. “Good luck with your endeavours.”
“I appreciate it,” I beamed as I pushed the trolley away from the till and began making my way out of the store.
The cart rattled as it went over the uneven sidewalk, and the contents flew around as it crashed off the kerb. I stopped for a moment, wondering where the hell I had parked my shabby motor and whether everything would even fit in the meagre trunk. After a few seconds of searching, I spotted the rusted-up bumper poking out of the line of vehicles on the other side of the car park. I pushed my trolley over, rested it on the back of my car, and then unlocked the trunk so I could load everything up. The longer items barely fit in the space, so I did contemplate feeding them over the seats, but I hated having something in my peripheral vision when I was driving. Once I had finished, I slammed it down, carelessly launched my empty cart into the middle of the road from where I was standing, and then made my way over to the driver’s seat. I placed one hand on the wheel as I twisted the key in the ignition, and as soon as the car spluttered to life, it weirdly reminded me that I had forgotten something, so I killed the engine again.
“Fucking sterilizer tablets,” I grumbled, turning the key again into the off position.
Just as I was about to get back out and nip back to the store, I saw something flash past in my peripheral vision, so I spun my head around to the window and saw a man tapping the muzzle of a pistol against the window. Before I managed to find the button to lock the doors in my clapped-out motor, he was already sitting in the back seat, and he threw a piece of rope around it and then tightened it around my neck. I thought he was trying to kill me at first, but he loosened it after a moment and then tapped me on the shoulder expectantly.
“What the—” I managed to mouth.
“You’re going to want to turn the engine back on, sunshine.”
I complied, not taking my eyes off the man sitting in the shadows of the back seat for even a moment.
“Who are you?” I asked.
“Put it in reverse and make your way out of the parking lot. You have somewhere to be.”
I did as he asked, barely able to move my head to check my mirrors as I blindly reversed out of the space and started driving out of the car park.
“Hang a left,” he ordered, loosening the rope ever so slightly.
“Fine, you got me—I’ll put my cart back in the bay if it’s so important to you,” I quipped.
He tightened the rope again, so much so that I could feel it cutting into my throat, but he immediately released it, and before I could even contemplate retaliation, I felt the sensation of a pistol tapping against the back of my skull. As I made the left turn and the beam of sunlight shifted position, I peered into the rearview mirror, finally getting a good look at the man now slouching in my back seat. I recognised him; he was the same guy who snatched me from the prison transport after my arraignment.
“It’s Mike, right?” I asked.
“Eyes on the road,” he groaned.
“Let me guess, M is pissed that I still haven’t done what she’s asked me to do?”
“Take a right,” he uttered.
“Call her and tell her I have a plan in motion,” I said as I began indicating right.
“You can tell her yourself.”
His words sent a shiver down my spine, and I awkwardly shifted my weight in the seat to shake it loose. She wasn’t intending to kill me, right? If she were, I wouldn’t have seen it coming. Mike would have taken that pistol of his and happily put a bullet in the back of my skull without a moment’s hesitation. However, the hardware store carpark was pretty crowded, and it would have left a lot of witnesses. I huffed and puffed as I mulled over the precarious situation I found myself in, thinking that there was something so undignified about driving oneself to one's own slaughter. Mike tapped his pistol on the side of the seat to remind me he was in control, and I realised that I was sitting in the middle of the road, so I completed the turn and started chugging along the unfamiliar road he was leading me down on.
“Where are you taking me?” I asked.
Mike let out a pained sigh before leaning forward in his seat.
“Do you remember what I told you after we sprung you from that prison transport?” he asked.
“I talk too much,” I answered.
“Bingo. Now, drive the fucking car, and stop flapping your gums. I’m nursing a headache back here.”
We continued driving down the road for at least twenty minutes, and for a while, I forgot that I was being held at gunpoint. One of the wheels hit a pothole in the asphalt, jolting Mike to the right, which is when I realised that he wasn’t wearing his seat belt. I slowly moved my right arm across my chest and grabbed mine, covertly clicking it into position without taking my eyes off his reflection in the mirror. I then swivelled my head left and right, looking for a suitable place to take the vehicle off-road, somewhere dangerous enough to send him flying from his seat but not enough to leave me too injured. Before I came to a decision, I heard my seat belt click again and noticed that he had ejected it with the muzzle of his pistol.
“Really?” he began, steeped in sarcasm. “This isn’t like in the movies, pal.”
“You can’t blame a man for trying,” I muttered.
“I suppose not, but your timing is terrible because we’re almost here. Turn down this dirt track.”
As soon as I made it around the bend, I spotted the same limousine that was waiting for me outside the airport, with M leaning against it, the smoke from her cigarette gathering around her mirrored shades. I pulled up beside it, and she tossed the cigarette into the dirt, which actually encouraged me to let out a sigh of relief that she wasn’t going to burn another hole in my palm. I turned the engine off, pulled up the handbrake, and clasped my fingers around the wheel. Another goon made his way over to my window and rapped on the glass with his knuckles before beckoning me to get out.
I pushed open my creaky door and threw one of my legs out, peering up at the man who was holding me at gunpoint, silhouetted by the sun. With a sigh, I stood up, gawkily raising my hands in a hesitant surrender as I moved around the vehicle and toward M. She squared her shoulders, pulling up her sunglasses so they were sitting atop her head before nodding at the man now standing behind me, who placed his foot in the crux of my knee and forced me to the ground.
“I’ve been thinking—I was wrong in what I said to you back at the airport,” she mused.
“Which part?” I asked, squinting in the sunlight.
“I said you were just as difficult as Gregory—it turns out you’re far worse.”
“I’ve had some setbacks.”
“Setbacks,” she scoffed. “Say what you want about your father, but he got the job done and always promptly.”
“Well, he isn’t here now, is he?” I replied.
“Unfortunately not, no,” she mused.
I didn’t reply, largely because I couldn’t think of anything witty to retort with. It’s difficult to be amusing, menacing, or anything when your life is clearly in danger. M gave me a second to contemplate my response before she expectantly held her hand out to Mike, who predictably furnished her with his pistol. She straightened her arm, hovering the barrel mere inches away from my head, so I tightened up my face further and waited for the inevitable click of the trigger.
